


The husbandry of victory is blood

by FerusAurelius



Category: Mass Effect - All Media Types, Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: Angst and Feels, Backstory, Family Feels, Gen, Nihlus Kryik Lives, Nihlus has adopted batarian grandparents, Pre-Canon, Pre-Mass Effect 1, You're Welcome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:20:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26057104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FerusAurelius/pseuds/FerusAurelius
Summary: The early life of Nihlus Kryik, including his enlistment in the Hierarchy military and the beginnings of his well-earned reputation.
Relationships: Nihlus Kryik & Original Character(s)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 9





	The husbandry of victory is blood

**Author's Note:**

  * For [commander_hot_pants](https://archiveofourown.org/users/commander_hot_pants/gifts).



> While this is intended to reflect Nihlus’s background in my no-Reapers AU (Air Needing Light), it’s also my general reading of his character—without my having to write him his own novel, the greedy bastard!
> 
> The title is taken from “Sparta Says No” by A.E. Stallings. 
> 
> Acknowledgments  
> A tip of the hat to everyone in The Cult of Nihlus Kryik discord server for being awesome enablers, naming Nihlus’s turian siblings, and instigating these shenanigans in the first place. With special thanks to [BronzeAgeLove](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BronzeAgeLove) for a very important beta reading comment!

* * *

> Yes, and a time will come when in those lands the farmer, as he cleaves the soil with his curved plough, will find javelins corroded with rusty mould, or with his heavy hoe will strike empty helmets, and marvel at gigantic bones in the upturned graves.
> 
> Virgil, Georgics Book I ( _tr. H. R. Fairclough_ )

As a child, he wears half-face markings and speaks in batarian trader patois. Slips between the Terminus languages and Hierarchy basic often enough to blend the words. Slides and tumbles them together like stones in a game of draughts. 

Greets his doting _amma_ and _appa_ with a deferential leftward cant of his head, their warm four-eyed regard as familiar to him as the faces of his parents. He hums along to batarian counting rhymes, lifting each of his talons in turn, until they reach six! Chirps his plaintive, piping distress so that _appa_ will offer his wrinkled, five-fingered hands to finish the song. Why batarians insist on counting everything in _tens_ is beyond him.

The outpost on Vatar is a small bastion against the black, a cold rock womb heated to blood warmth by the radiant circulation generators. They have no near neighbors but themselves. He likes to watch the visiting ships landing beneath the envirodome. Peers in wonder as they skate past the thin, gleaming false atmosphere, their pitted hulls wreathed in vapor. Marvels at any and all outsiders, descending like spirits from distant stars.

He witnesses an ancient liveship escorted to the surface. The quarians come trading fresh hydroponic vegetables and news from other systems. Observes the _Falx_ truce customs—protection from other mercenary companies on Vatar, free repair of damaged systems, and full guest rights—while he chases and befriends his strange new playmates. Looks for their luminous eyes in games of hide-and-seek. Goes on chases spanning the full length of the cargo hold, a steel no-man’s-land without decontamination locks. Learns to sniff out the antiseptic tang of envirosuits. Joins a game of tag where everyone takes turns being ‘it,’ but still never grabs patterned sleeves. Receives trade-cloth in red and gold as a parting gift. Borrows his mother’s extranet address to watch grainy, hopeful messages from his distant friends. Records a few of his own in return.

Acquires twin sisters rather than the brother he wanted. Flees their squalling cries at first, alarmed at the sheer volume and resentful of their demands for attention. Father explains they are his to protect. _Family comes first._ He paints their baby markings for them one memorable afternoon, tracing gentle curves of white over soft brown plates. Colony crescents without the _Falx_ sickles, because they—like he—are still too young to fight. Watches Tomyris admire his handiwork in a mirror, trill her perfect contentment, and then press her too-eager hands to her face. His careful lines merge into a mask of white. Thalia, laughing at his shock, smears her own fresh colors to spite him. Father wrestles all of them into a sand-bath in a tumble of limbs, rumbling mock threats, while mother blocks their escape attempts with her gentle biotic field.

* * *

He is the pet of the shooting range. Spends his afternoons hustling spare ammunition from his father’s friends. Makes it his business to shadow the best marksmen in _Falx_ , watching each careful breath. Imitates their way of mapping the invisible connection between eye and target. Is taught to draw and fire from retention, to snake his head over his pistol and chase his first round with two more slugs. Trains to distract an attacker with a false surrender and the movement of his raised hands. His dexterity wins him grudging respect from outsiders passing through the Vatar territory. He earns a few black-market weapon mods, sharpshooting lessons from an asari commando, and the worshipful attention of his baby brother.

He joins his mother’s family harvest crew on the harsh plains of Triginta Petra, his aunts and uncles organizing each work group. Wrestles good soil from the unyielding earth alongside his cousins, first with hand tools and then with excavators. Pits his young strength against the desert hardpan in a fight that the Laskaris clan has been winning longer than any other. Lingers to watch a towering harvester move into place at the end of a furrowed field. Hears the snap of a broken chain, the rush of a falling scythe blade, and moves aside just in time to keep his foot. Earns his first taste of beer—brewed from desert-adapted Triginta grain, and then blended into a Taetran dark malt—at the end of the hardest work of his life. Celebrates victory in a haze spiced with the taste of _lupulin_ flowers. 

He carries his Stiletto on his hip and the weight of _Falx_ crescents on his jaw, still unblooded but claimed. He is both fourteen and tall for his age, only newly trusted with guard duty. He stands on watch while traders come pleading with the outpost for water. Beg for help with repairs. The strangers speak _amma_ and _appa_ ’s names as their guarantees. Such a truce must be honored; even when the stranded freighter arrives days after the main company of fighters has left, seeking contract work in other systems far from Vatar.

All starts well. He watches, suspicious to see the water barrels corroded and the 'traders' heavily armed. Recognizes the slavers by their speech. He makes his first kill while held at gunpoint, his rifle still maglocked to his back, moving as he once did in practice. Takes one shot to his ablative side plates. Kills his second attacker. Feels a blow to his carapace, but no pain. He broadcasts an alert code over the short range comms and joins the other guards in repelling the desperate slavers. Takes a chance moving to cover someone else, and feels the sinews of his arm tighten. Ignores the numbness at first, the blooming fire that follows, to pursue the last of the invaders, instead. Regroups with the outpost medic. Ties off bandages and administers immunospray as directed. Works until he drops a tray of instruments, and then notices the blood dotting the floor beneath his elbow. Sits down on a crate and counts himself lucky. Wonders when exactly he was shot.

He wears full-face paint afterward, the blooded sickles—his right, won in battle—spreading beneath his eyes and blooming on his crest. Each subtle flared line connecting his colony to his profession. Endures jokes about waiting for tattoos until he’s reached his full height. Joins his mother on their night raids, where he discovers blank, unresisting eyes waiting for him inside a stolen cargo freighter. Transfers the slaves—batarian, human, and turian—to the _Falx_ transport without resistance. Suppresses a lurch in his stomach. Thinks of the absence of sentient will, and imagines a silicon implant shackling his own. Spends long nights talking to his _appa_ about the tenets of the Pillars of Strength.

* * *

He plays hunting games with Thalia and Tomyris on his days off from duty with _Falx_ . Volunteers to be the ‘prey’ just to run from them, rolling his eyes and making ridiculous noises. Sprinting from their grasp with easy, long-legged strides. Develops a reputation in the outpost for his comically convincing impression of a panicked _struthious_. Overhears the company making jokes about what his sisters will do when they finally catch him. Will they serve him grilled or raw? Perhaps roasted?

In time, he attracts an alarming multi-species pack of children. Constructs an increasingly elaborate series of scenarios. Sees, with pride, Thalia and Tomyris presiding over a dedicated cadre of trap-makers.

Interrupts their latest and most complex plot in order to fit himself with borrowed armor. Joins a last-minute contract group with his parents. _Falx_ ’s first adjunct agreement to act as transportation and muscle for another professional merc group, calling themselves _Blue Suns_.

* * *

He witnesses his father’s cutter breaking up over Zorya. Feels the abrupt, soundless flash of light and fire as a kick to his keel. Hears his mother’s hollow keening and presses his mandibles to hers. Stands helpless on the planet’s surface. Around them, their Blue Suns handlers swarm and continue loading ammunition into the remaining ships. He wonders how none of them react to the unraveling of gravity, of time and place. 

He joins in a chorus of memory and sorrow on Vatar. Drinks with _Falx_ one last time before carrying his father’s memory to his family home on Taetrus, where he sings Inaros Kryik’s praises. Lifts the cup of mourning with Traian, pouring dark ale over an empty grave. Comforts Thalia and Tomyris. Sees _appa_ and _amma_ standing beside his mother so that she won’t be alone in her grief, her own parents mid-harvest and far away. 

Listens that night, numb, as Kavala Kryik explains their finances and hands him Hierarchy enrollment papers. 

He pretends enlisting is his idea. Talks up the benefits to Traian, spinning tales about wanting the best equipment. Rattles off a list of the kit he’ll buy once he gets out. Makes a case for the training he’ll have when he returns to Vatar, all expenses paid by Hierarchy military grants. 

Fails—as usual—to convince the twins.

Thalia lets him lie, accepting his need to save face, while Tomyris stares him down. His fiercest sister, always the best at calling him on his bullshit. Tomy transfers a part of her savings to his account without asking. Makes him promise, her eyes bright with fury, to send messages as often as he can record them. Hugs him so tightly that his plates ache in time with his heart.

He uses the money to commission a Taetran artist. Falls asleep to the rasping sound of the paintbrush working over his face.

* * *

Regrets bringing his—confiscated—red and gold quarian trade-cloth on the first day. Endures remedial language classes that treat his batarian inflections as a quaint disease. Recites characteristics of weapons and ammunition with confidence, but goes silent on the latest clawball statistics. Accepts extra pack weight, longer runs, denied weekend passes, and cleaning duty as his lot in life. Replies to orders in batarian when exhausted, which only makes things worse. 

Suppresses every reflex he earned the hard way with _Falx_. Does things right but at the wrong time. Shoulders his punishment and quietly outscores every soldier on the physical and weapons tests. Can’t force himself to do stupid things in the name of orders. Balks at fighting in the name of narrow-minded Hierarchy patriotism. Longs for familiar voices.

He scopes out the gym for a few days shy of a week, watching the fighters practice and lingering or walking past. It’s tucked in a rundown warehouse, the doors half falling off, the mats near flat and more patched than whole. It’s his kind of worn, with his kind of people. This being near a Hierarchy base, he even meets veterans who read his paint and invite him closer rather than driving him away. None of the others wear sickles, but there are a few with talons and suns incorporated into their colony markings. Close enough to speak the same language, despite their distance from the Terminus. Learns to leave his worries at the threshold and let the fights wash him clean. Buys rounds and sings bawdy parodies of the Hierarchy anthem loud and off-key. _Fuck the cause, we’ll die for a drink!_

Stands before his superiors, one week left until graduation, answering questions about why he receives regular batarian transmissions from the Terminus Systems. Tries to explain _appa_ and _amma_ to his disbelieving drill instructors.

* * *

He scores well on his final aptitude tests and pulls patrol flotilla duty in the Attican Traverse. Meets a soldier who calls herself a translator, but carries a heavily-modified sidearm, wears a minimalist style of colony paint, and looks like she’d be more than a match for him in the sparring ring. She introduces herself as _Optio_ Sideris, of the 85th Atrax Legion, Fifth Cohort Operations Section. He doesn’t say _Blackwatch_ out loud. Just stares. 

She informs him that his presence will be requested for batarian language demonstrations once they’re underway. This turns out to be additional training in gathering information. Sideris looks at him sidelong when he asks if that means torture. She tells him, to his relief, that he would not have been chosen if it did. 

He helps refine her understanding of batarian body language, including the right way to respond to a threat without provoking violence. A canted glance between left and center that is not quite submissive, but demonstrates attention. She teaches him to extend the range of his voice, to build rapport with his sources, and to mimic a wider variety of sounds. He answers her questions about Terminus dialects and mannerisms. Shows her how to roll words one into the next, like a trader.

He interrogates their batarian prisoners as much for tips on slaver traffic as for a chance to speak with anyone other than Hierarchy-bred soldiers. Secures information from the most belligerent, combative pirates. Finds that cracking jokes in trader patois is a tenuous, strange kind of homecoming. 

Fields questions from smugglers about why a ‘nice merc kid’ like him is working for the Hierarchy. Spins a story about slave control chips without knowing, at first, that he is telling the truth. Rediscovers the power of his old memories. Quotes _appa’s_ sayings on the Pillars of Strength. Makes the _Falx_ night raids real for his listeners. 

He gets to know his sources a day at a time. Ignores their threats, asks after their names and family. Tells his own stories to draw them out, patient as a hunter. Takes crude maps drawn by pirates with no hope of freedom for themselves. Each a precious concession, a chance at saving lives. Bows his head, eyes downcast leftward, and asks for the name of the one whose honor he’s serving. Sends patrol frigates to these locations to retrieve stolen colonists on the outermost edges of Council space. Waits and hopes. Arrives in time to save some, but too late for others. Wonders, if he were faster—

Sideris tells him about an interesting pattern. These maps, she says, are usually entrusted only to _Merc Red_ , who wears blood markings and keeps his promises. 

He sends messages to the families of his sources. Bargains with his superiors to supply them with paint, or playing cards, or religious texts out of his own pay packet. 

Finds near the end of his deployment that _Optio_ Sideris has recommended him for a promotion, singling him out as an outstanding intelligence collector. She also nominates him for a prestigious special intelligence citation, which he receives, along with a packet of letters and photos. An array of faces smiling on far-flung colony worlds. He keeps these wrapped in his red and gold quarian trade-cloth, which Sideris retrieved and then returned to him during his training. 

His information leads to the recovery of ninety-three enslaved colonists, a record for the Attican Traverse patrol flotilla. He sends a message to Tomyris about possibly extending his service.

* * *

He leads his first patrol around a mercenary checkpoint. Orders his soldiers to stand down out of sight. Arranges for the hired guards to be elsewhere for a few hours while he and his squad conduct a search, leaving behind broken weapons in a gesture of thanks. Accepts the scathing reprimand without protest, along with the inevitable unit transfer. 

Follows his next leader into hostile territory. Conducts negotiations with the pirates who have them surrounded, explains that they will be left alone if they turn on a band of slavers. Proposes that they leave the system before more heavily-armed support can arrive. Refuses to disable the pirate frigate while they flee the approaching dreadnaught, scorns orders that would make him a liar. Shoulders another reprimand, tall and unflinching and silent before the review board. 

Laughs about his bad luck and teaches every squad to sing obscene merc variations of “Die for the Cause.” Buries his hopes for further advancement in the Hierarchy, but never abandons his people. Wears _insubordinate and reckless_ like a badge, his tattooed colony markings proudly embellished with _Falx_ sickles curving along his crest and eyes and jaw.

**Author's Note:**

> Now with accompanying [author annotations](https://ferusaurelius.tumblr.com/post/627311351172300800/nihlus-fic-headcanons) on the headcanons that I used in this character sketch.


End file.
